Glimpses of Dementia--Chapter One (by Blue)
by Rhapsody and Blue
Summary: It is a mystery for many reasons; mainly, that not even the authors know its future. The title could be important to the plot; we do not know. This universe could be ordinary or bizarre, truth or alternity. May the hands of fate guide us.
1. Default Chapter Title

Authors' Note: This is an X-fiction written by two authors a lot of you already know. We do not know the future plot any more than you do. The point of an X-fiction is oblivion of the future and attention to the past. The odd-numbered chapters will be written by Blue, while the even-numbered will be written by Rhapsody.

Disclaimer: We own nothing that you recognize.

Chapter One

__

By "Blue"

She tiptoed through the hallway as quietly as she possibly could, her sharp eyes darting around nervously. Had she been a fair bit older than eleven, she would have passed for a portrait of a queen. Her hair, long and black, hung down her back in soft braids, and she was clothed in a white silk nightdress and a white velvet dressing gown. Her face radiated with beauty and innocence, and one could tell at one glance into her cornflower blue eyes that she was very clever. Her very name meant wisdom, and she was, indeed, intelligent.

Intelligent, yes, but naïve.

Eyes narrowing slightly, she peeked around the corner before rounding it, her clothes rustling very slightly. Curiosity burned in her, driving her forward, though her conscience chastised her, telling her that she should have remained in the Gryffindor common room. However, her weakness had always been her curiosity, and she could not let a mission like this pass her by just because of the rules. Making sure the hallway was clear, she darted along it with catlike agility, following her senses. After a flight of stairs, she thought she heard a noise. Resolutely, the girl followed the sound until it brought her to the doorway of what she assumed was an abandoned classroom. Looking at the number, it was confirmed; this was the same one.

The mysterious sound had turned into a voice, and a familiar one at that. Leaning in closer, the girl could barely make out any words. For the life of her, the girl could not place the voice's owner. It could have been anybody, though it was low enough to belong to a boy. But she knew she had heard it before, somewhere.

Deciding to take the risk, the girl nudged the door open. The room inside was lit by a strange dark light coming from a lantern on a table, and the girl could see a vague silhouette of the person talking. Whoever it was had jet-black hair that was, for the age, defiantly long, going halfway down the back of his neck. He kept murmuring in what sounded like Welsh, and he was wearing steel-colored robes and a long, hooded cloak of the same sharp grey. The girl watched for a few seconds before panic overcame her. There was something frightening in the tone in which he was saying the unknown words; something that made her want to run.

"Get a handle on yourself," she thought to herself. "You've come this far, Minerva Sophia McGonagall, and you aren't about to turn back!" Of course, maybe Dickie Prewitt had been lying when he told her that someone performed Dark magic in this classroom late at night. But whatever the tall stranger was muttering had to be evil--Minerva could hear the edge to his voice.

Without warning, the boy switched to English, now chanting in a slightly louder tone of voice.

__

O Wraiths of those forgotten

Shades and Specters abound

Come to me.

O shackled fiends thankfully lost

And ghosts of those unjustly dead

And murdered by the former

Come to me.

Send aid in the form

Of a death messenger.

I call upon you.

Come to me.

Minerva waited, curiosity twinging in her chest. Then, abruptly, shapes began to swim into view. The stranger's lantern was extinguished by a sudden blast of cold, though nobody noticed. Minerva realized that the tall boy was now surrounded by ghosts, as though he had summoned them. His eyes caught the light of one of the ghosts and glinted so that Minerva could see their color. Brilliant violet, almost iridescent, glinting like amethysts.

Minerva's breath caught in her chest. She only knew of one student with black hair and violet eyes. Only one student who spoke Welsh and preferred ghosts to humans enough to study necromancy. Only one student who had the intelligence to perform such advanced charms. She could not suppress a scream. It was not out of fear of the ghosts he had summoned, but out of fear of the boy himself. It was impossible not to fear him… Minerva did not know him well, but had seen what happened to those who crossed him. And yet, she could not stop screaming.

Almost in one movement, the boy swept his arm, bidding the ghosts to leave, whirled on Minerva, and strode toward her with the kind of calmness that he only used when about to curse someone painfully. Minerva held out a hand as though to ward him off, but the boy's hand closed around her wrist and he blinked at her slowly. It suddenly struck her how very long his eyelashes were, almost too long to belong to a boy. "Minerva," he whispered, his voice flinty. He never raised it to a high decibel level, but everyone knew that the quieter he grew, the more dangerous he was. Unlike most students, he insisted upon calling everyone by his or her first name, even his worst enemies.

"Riddle!" Minerva shrieked. "Stay away from me!"

"Quiet," Tom Riddle hissed, his eyes flashing malevolently. "If you keep it up, we are both caught, Minerva. You know that as well as I." His grip tightened on her wrist. "Explain yourself."

Minerva wanted to hiss and spit and scratch him violently, but she feared what he would do to retaliate. "Dickie Prewitt told me that someone was performing Dark magic in that classroom," Minerva confessed, quailing under Tom's furious glare. "I was curious."

The barest hint of a sadistic smile played across the fourth-year's face. "Curiosity killed the cat, Minerva," he responded softly. "Just so you know, that is not Dark magic. Necromancy is not a Forbidden Craft, as well you should know, considering your test scores." Minerva wondered how his eyes could look so angry, when his face remained calm. "But you, Minerva, seem very much like a cat to me. Does that not mean, in turn, that your curiosity shall be rewarded with--"

Minerva forced herself to burst into tears, which usually scared bullies away. Tom, however, saw right through it. "A paper-thin façade," he told her coolly. "Now, Minerva, to business. I shall admit, this is not something I would like the teachers to know about." His face went slightly paler, and Minerva could tell he was thinking about the Transfiguration teacher, Professor Dumbledore, who was the only person who could frighten Tom at all. "But you are not going to tell."

"Why shouldn't I, you Slytherin scum?" Minerva spat.

She immediately regretted it. Tom made a motion as if to strike her, but he forced himself not to do it. He was that rare person who could be both a cad and a gentleman; he could hex anyone without batting an eye, but could not bring himself to physically hit a girl. Shuddering with rage, he drew out a wand and pointed it at Minerva's heart. "I know the spell that could stop this from beating," he said, indicating her heart, which was pumping abnormally quickly. "I also know the spell that could slowly suffocate you; an invisible pillow placed over your face, and you, unable to do anything. And another spell--morbid, this one--that will split every blood vessel in your body, starting with the capillaries and working its way up by size… I know many things, Minerva… very many… and I am sure you do not want to get caught up in it."

Minerva stared at the Slytherin with a mix of horror and some sort of macabre admiration. His amethyst eyes glimmered again. Tom raised his eyebrows for an instant, smirking a little and ever-so-slightly cocking his head. "Well?" he whispered. "Do you still want to run off to your precious professors the moment I let go of you?"

"No," Minerva lied, the mendacity quivering on her tongue. Tom's smile grew a little wider.

"You lying brat," he purred. "If you are really _that_ keen on getting me caught, Minerva, then I am afraid I shall have to take matters into my own hands." Minerva tried to wrench her arm out of his grasp and make a break for it, but Tom was stronger by far than his lanky figure suggested. Minerva heard just one word before losing consciousness.

"_Obliviate_."

And then she knew nothing.


	2. Default Chapter Title

Authors' Note: This is an X-fiction written by two authors a lot of you already know. We do not know the future plot any more than you do. The point of an X-fiction is oblivion of the future and attention to the past. The odd-numbered chapters will be written by Blue, while the even-numbered will be written by Rhapsody.

Disclaimer: We own nothing that you recognize.

  
  


Chapter Two

_by Rhapsody_

  
  


The pounding ache in the back of Minerva's head brought her floating slowly back into the world of colors and shapes, vague and blurry as it was. Something hovered worriedly in her field of view, something wobbly and dark-haired that was wafting painful amounts of concern in her direction--Tom Riddle, she remembered foggily, that Slytherin prefect. "Minerva? Minerva, are you all right?"

"Ow," said Minerva inadequately, squinting at what had rapidly become a recognizable face. 

Lips moved. The eyes went from a foggy, unreadable gray to an obviously relieved light violet: "Jesus, that was scary. I was coming out of the classroom--guess I must have scared you. Jesus. I'm really, really sorry."

"I fell?" asked Minerva groggily, feeling like an idiot. 

"Er--" the worried light in the boy's eyes returned; there was something beyond the worry, though, as though a tinge of relief was still there. "Yeah, looked like you tripped on the staircase." The nuances, the layers and shadings and double meanings in the iridescent irises were making her head hurt. She closed her eyes briefly and let a wash of nausea ride over her.

"Hey!" Tom's voice was sharp now, almost desperate. "Don't do that. You might have a concussion and you're not supposed to fall asleep. Open your eyes. _Open them!_"

Reluctantly, Minerva did so, a childish protest escaping her lips. "You're not the boss of me."

His face split into a wide grin. "Good. If you're mad at me, you'll stay awake. Can you get up?"

She made a halfhearted attempt at forcing herself upright on her elbows, but her arms shook under her and she collapsed helplessly again. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't worry about it. It wasn't your fault." There were strong hands under her arms and he was pulling her to her feet; she wobbled a bit and had to place one hand against the cool, smooth stone of the wall to recover herself. 

He leaned against the wall next to her, shoving his hands into his pockets. Relaxed, his shoulders down and the front of his cloak unlaced, he hardly looked like the dangerous delinquent many had named him. He looked almost...well, she hated to say it, but he looked _friendly_. And the way his hair swiped across his forehead....

She had to close her eyes again, violet starbursts pounding behind her eyelids.

"I feel like such a wanker," he said after a moment, staring at the ceiling. "It was incredibly inconsiderate of me to come barging out like that. I'm so..."

"Sorry," she finished for him, opening her eyes and turning to flash him a faint grin. "You shouldn't be--I'm all right--"

Minerva found the words sticking in her mouth as his eyes slanted towards her, shadowed by the sweep of lashes and the tilt of pointed chin. _Why is he being so nice to me? I saw him knock Dickie Prewett into a pillar the other day and he didn't even look back._

_ Why do I care _why_ he's being nice? Why don't I shut up and enjoy what that mouth looks like when he's not sneering?_

What_ did I just think?!_

She raised a hand to her face, confused, needing the cool touch of her frigid fingers against the hot flush of her cheek...and touched something there, a shiny dryness like blood, or the remainders of tears.

_When was I crying?_

Something flashed in Tom's face and he seized her wrist before she could ponder the matter further. 

And all of a sudden she felt like every nerve in her body had suddenly sloughed and run together like sand through an hourglass, melting, pushing, tensing into her fingers and wrist where the smooth curves of his hand touched hers--every part of her mind glowed and swayed feverishly over the contours of his fingerprints--

"Careful," he said softly, "I'm afraid you'll overbalance."

She felt almost dizzy. What had that been? _I'm a child,_ she thought frantically, _I'm a kid, I'm not supposed to feel this way, it isn't _right_..._

"How old are you?" he asked, tilting his head to one side, his tapered fingers lingering on her own. _He can't make me feel anything..._

"Eleven," Minerva whispered, adding with some spirit "but I'm old for my age."

The ghost of a smile twitched at the corners of the wide mouth. "Are you?" he said almost musingly, more to himself than to her. "I can believe it." He tugged the tiny lip-twitch into a full smile; it looked very difficult, and somehow out of place in the coldly handsome visage. "You shouldn't be up so late. What are you doing?"

Minerva opened her mouth to reply; a reply escaped her lips and flitted mockingly to the corner of her mind. "I...um..." And suddenly she remembered that he was a prefect, and he had a duty to report these things--"Don't report me!" she gasped desperately. "Please don't report me!" Tears sprang to her eyes--genuine ones, not the fakes she could so easily conjure up when the need arose. "Please...don't tell the Headmaster..."

Tom released her arm and she fell back, cowering almost. Minerva hated to cower, but now seemed like a good time to try it. He seemed to retreat into himself for a moment, as though weighing his options; and then he looked up. 

"You've never done anything like this before, have you?"

She shook her head in mute terror.

Tom shrugged. "I owe you one, for knocking you down, so I'll let it go. It's none of my business."

Minerva nearly collapsed in relief.

"But I've got to take you to Madam Ragweed; that's a nasty bump you've got." His fingers played soothingly over the raised skin at the back of her head, and she shivered, flinching away and whirling to stare accusingly at him. 

"You can't take me! They'll find out--I shouldn't have been up--"

"Minerva, that could be serious. I don't want..."

"It's not serious!" Minerva half-screamed, pulling away from him. Look, I'm just fine, I really am. I'll go to Madam Ragweed in the morning and I swear I won't fall asleep...just let me go back to the dorm..."

The worry in Tom's eyes could not entirely hide the strange victorious glint in them...she couldn't be bothered to analyze it, though. "If you swear..."

"I swear!"

He heaved a sigh. "I'm going to regret it, but I don't want you to get in trouble. I'll walk you up to Gryffindor."

Even in the throes of relief, Minerva's eleven-year-old pride was vaguely offended. "Oh, thank you...but I don't need any help..."

"Indulge me. Assuage my aching conscience." The smile, trying to accustom itself to Tom's features, had finally settled into a comfortable curve of his cheek. 

She straightened her shoulders and stood up; _If I must die of shame,_ she thought grimly, _I will do it with dignity. _

Refusing Tom's offered elbow, she shook out her braids and stalked out towards the end of the hallway, trying to ignore the way the tips of her ears burned with every sauntering step behind her. 

She had almost reached the steps to Gryffindor tower when she bumped straight into a massive body and looked up into the stony face and broad shoulders of Porter Lestrange.

_Oh no_, thought Minerva frantically, and found herself casting about for Tom, but the boy had vanished somewhere. "Get off me, Lestrange," she managed, trying to keep her trembling voice in check. 

"What are _you _doing up, ickle Firstie?" rumbled the enormous Slytherin, grinning unpleasantly at her. "Only fourth-years and up are allowed to be wandering the castle at this hour. What've you been up to?" He seized her slight shoulders and leered down at her; she flinched away from his gaze. 

"Get off me, I said!"

"I want to know what you've been doing," said Lestrange, conversationally. "You're a nosy little brat, McGonagall; you're worse than your sister."

"I'm not a brat!" she snapped, struggling in his grip. "And you're a stupid gorilla--no wonder Nadia Gregorovitch doesn't like you!"

The smile vanished from Lestrange's face as promptly as it had come and Lestrange suddenly raised his fist, an ugly anger twisting his features. "You don't know anything about Nadia, you stupid--"

"Porter!" A clear, authoritative voice echoed across the stairwell, firm and angry but controlled. "Get your ugly hands off her, _now_."

_Tom!_

_ I will_ not_ let him be my knight in shining armor! I will not let him do that to me!_

_ But..._

Lestrange's meaty fist fell to his side as he stared, slack-jawed, at the other boy. "What are you on about, Tom? Look, she's a Gryffindor--"

"I told you," said Tom in that soft, dangerous voice, "to get your hands off her. Don't make me say it again."

The hand around Minerva's shoulder released and Minerva yanked away from the hulking Slytherin, her pride still more offended by the fact that she was both flattered and gratified by Tom's action. "Thank you," she said, in her coldest voice. "I am going to bed now."

"Wha--" started Lestrange, but a lazy glance from Tom silenced him, and he watched in soundless appall as the girl straightened her rumpled gown and padded up the stairs to the dormitory of the Enemy. 

When she had gone: "What in the _hell_ are you playing at?" he hissed at Tom, but the prefect only smiled, a faint expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. 

"Don't question me, Porter. I have my reasons." He turned around and stalked away down the corridor in a swirl of black robes, beckoning the larger boy with a curt nod. "Come. It's late."

Lestrange stared after Tom a moment, mystified, and then hurried to catch up, having to jog to catch up with his fellow Slytherin's purposeful strides. 


	3. Default Chapter Title

Authors' Note: This is an X-fiction written by two authors a lot of you already know. We do not know the future plot any more than you do. The point of an X-fiction is oblivion of the future and attention to the past. The odd-numbered chapters will be written by Blue, while the even-numbered will be written by Rhapsody.

Disclaimer: We own nothing that you recognize.

Chapter Three

__

By "Blue"

Tom's casually forced smile faded away as soon as he had turned away from Porter Lestrange. His eyes, glimmering in the torchlight, wandered over his shoulder and gazed back at Porter. "Idiot," he thought coldly. If Porter had raised too much noise, a professor would have come out, and the whole thing would have taken a lot of explaining.

Tom could imagine the questions even as he strode down the dungeon steps. _Why is a first-year girl out of bed with a bump on her head? Do you and Lestrange have anything to do with this? And for heaven's sake, Riddle, why are you wearing a necromancer's cloak?_ Tom shuddered. Then they would have figured out about the memory charm, and the last thing Tom wanted was for any of the professors to find out what he was up to…

The fourth-year frowned slightly and picked up the pace. Lucky thing that he had been blessed with considerable acting skill. Minerva had bought into his concerned façade completely—almost too completely for his comfort. Tom did not like Minerva at all, but he respected her intelligence, and worried that she had also been putting it on. That was definitely the case if she was anything like her sister.

Reaching the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Tom stepped aside. "After you, Porter," Tom said to his companion, voice laden with ice. To the taller boy's great annoyance, Porter was now laughing at something. Tom folded his arms and leveled a glare at Porter, who shut up immediately. "Mind telling me what exactly you find amusing?" Tom demanded, voice dropping to a dangerously soft pitch.

Porter shrugged. "Just think it's funny, is all," he replied. Tom idly waved his hand. Quiet anger blazed in his eyes, but did not extend itself into his face. Instead, it manifested itself in the spell he had used. Porter shrank back, doubled over, every nerve in his body feeling as though it was on fire.

"You shall answer me directly." Tom worked his voice into a lazily domineering drawl. "I asked you what was so funny."

"You're not going to like it—" Porter gasped, eyes screwed up with pain.

Tom's slight smile slowly widened, and Porter hunched over, choking, as the agony doubled. "_Must_ I be sharp with you, Porter?" Tom asked, a frightening parody of pleasantness lilting at his voice. The sight of his least favourite classmate in this kind of pain was sending him into a spitefully sadistic euphoria. "I utterly abhor people who evade inquiries. I do not give a bloody damn if you think I will not like what you have to tell me. If you know what is good for you, Porter, you will answer me. Truthfully."

"I—ah—thought of a pun," Porter wheezed. Tom's eyes narrowed as he spied the glimmer of duplicity in Porter's face.

"_Tell the truth, you idiot_," Tom hissed, his violet eyes starting to look drastically more iridescent. Porter whimpered, which would have been a comical action for one so bulky, had it not been for the fact that the other was looking at him with pure venom in his eyes. Tom raised his hand again.

Porter hurriedly gave in. "I was laughing because I thought you were standing up for that Gryffindor because you liked her," he rasped in one breath.

Tom's expression of dark amusement morphed into pure, cold rage. Porter shrank back, but the fourth-year did nothing. He lifted the spell, that look of revulsion still ravaging his face. "I told you to go in first," Tom repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "Either you accept the favour, or you do not."

Porter shakily approached the common room entrance, seeming unwilling to turn his back on Tom. "_Anguis atrox_," Porter whispered to the wall, still eyeing Tom warily. The entrance slid open and Porter dashed into the common room. Tom heard his elephantine footfalls rushing up the staircase to the seventh-year boys' dormitory, and waited for the telltale slam of a door before walking into the common room himself.

If there was one thing Tom abhorred about being a Slytherin, it was the common room. The Slytherins had originally had their own tower, but it had been destroyed in a fire in the early nineteenth century. Without enough Ministry funding to rebuild the tower, the school had been forced to move the Slytherin common room to the one available place—that is to say, the largest of the unoccupied dungeons. The common room was near pitch-black and rough-walled, lit only dimly by greenish lamps hanging in chains from the ceiling. There were no tapestries to hold in the heat, so it was also freezing cold. Not that Tom minded the cold. It was more the spiders and the leaks that bothered him. He cast a disenchanted eye around the commons and seated himself in a high-backed armchair before the dying fire.

He could tell from the feeling in the air there was not another living soul in the premises. But the common room was not empty, by far. Dozens upon dozens of ghosts swarmed through the chamber, looking like pearly-white moving statues. Most other people would not have seen the ghosts, but Tom had been blessed with the Sense ever since birth, and he could see and hear all of them. Yawning, Tom scanned the crowd for any new faces. Seeing none, Tom turned back to the fire—only to see a newcomer sitting in front of it. She had her back to him, and had long, silver ringlets falling down her translucent back. She had the nearly opaque, cloudy form of a ghost only recently bereaved, and appeared to be about thirteen years of age. Tom could tell who it was in an instant.

"You've returned," Tom said mildly. The ghost girl turned her once-pretty face in his direction. Tom did not wince, but it was a close thing. The girl's face, neck, and shoulders were covered with inch-deep lacerations, and an even deeper gash ran in her throat, going through all four jugular veins. Had her arms been uncovered, it would have been apparent that her arms were slashed just as fiercely. Pale silver blood was splattered down the front of her low-necked gown, causing it to cling to her intangible skin.

"You expected me to stay away forever?" The girl's voice was melodious and unearthly, and Tom felt a jolt of painful memory at the sound of it. She glanced at him, somehow looking serene even with the ghastly tears in her flesh. "Have you gone through with the plan yet?" she asked, running a mangled hand through her dark silver hair.

"I have been trying," Tom murmured in response, not wanting to raise his voice in case one of the other ghosts heard. He added dryly, "Your sister put an end to this evening's attempt."

The girl grimaced. "How's she been taking it? Do you know?"

"I do not speak with her often," Tom responded grimly. "As far as I can tell, she is making an attempt to drown her sorrows in textbook pages."

"No, love," the ghost replied softly, her harplike voice going from neutral to torturously gentle. "That's you."

Tom's face contorted, and he stared at his hands. As a reflex, the ghost laid a hand on his arm, but he shuddered as a rush of icy cold shot through his veins. The girl drew back, flinching.

"I'll look in on her later. What did she do to disrupt the operations?" the ghost continued, hurriedly changing the subject.

"She screamed," Tom said shortly. "I panicked and sent the ghosts off."

The wraith winced. "She's gotten curious since I left her, I suppose," she said quietly. "Can you point me in the direction of the Gryffindor common room? I want to see her."

"It is up the marble staircase, down the north hallway. I believe it is located behind a portrait of a woman in pink." Tom hesitated. "Must you leave so soon, Miranda?"

The phantom gave him a sad smile. "I'll be back to see you whenever I can," she promised. "Please get the job done soon, Tom."

"I will do my best," Tom said vaguely. "Goodbye, then, Miranda."

Miranda nodded and breezed out of the room, leaving Tom to his very turbulent thoughts.


End file.
